Making it in Toledo

Soon

Probably it’s the Claritin. Or maybe the CBD. But I’ve been walking around in a fog all day, my head full of cotton wool.

It’s too cold. I don’t want to go out. If I were to go out, where could I go?

For not quite a year, we have sheltered at home and been extremely cautious. Because golf is safe, John has had a fun activity, weather permitting. Because his mom lives nearby and is almost 100 years old, he visits her once a week. I don’t want to play golf, and I don’t want to visit my mother in law, but…

I cook. I bake. A lot. My bread-baking, especially, makes me feel satisfied.

I mask up and go to the grocery store about once a week. We order contact-free takeout when that sounds better than cooking. I do the occasional Zoom call and try to keep up with the groups I belong to. I talk to a few friends, but not as often as I’d like. Johanna and Loi visit, which helps a lot.

We’ve had the first round of vaccines and are scheduled for the second. I’m beginning to imagine feeling safe. Visiting my kids. Going to the library. The museum. Eating indoors with friends. It’s almost hard to picture.

Soon…

what time is it?

Before COVID, I didn’t consume much television. When quarantine and lockdowns are behind us, I hope to substitute other less restrictive activities for binge-watching Outlander and close-following the news.

But a week ago the attempted coup captured my eyes and today I can’t look away from the impeachment hearings. It’s becoming clearer how we got here, but tough to see where we go next or how.

I’ve long been fascinated by time travel. On Sunday we took a drive through Secor Metropark and visited Wolfinger Cemetery, with graves going back to 1835. I’ve been re-reading the Miss Peregrine and the peculiars books. And we’ve been watching 2-3 episodes of Jamie and Claire in the 18th century almost every night for a couple of weeks. No wonder I feel dis-oriented! Are the Regulators good guys or bad guys? Why is Jamie remaining loyal to King George? Can just anyone travel through the stones and, if not, what makes Claire and Brianna so special?

But really, men in kilts aside, who cares about these fictional adventurers? The important question is can we learn from our own history and create our own better future? And what can each of us do to make that more likely?

Ideas?

to a new year

I know it is cold outside this morning because the radiator in the bathroom is extra hot. And because the first thing I did when I woke up was to check “weather.com” on my phone. My computer screen tells me that today is Friday, and I believe it although it feels like Sunday, the day after a (very small) celebration and the day before a (as yet undefined) new week. Since the sky is cloudy, my sense of time is independent of the sun.

But when I make dinner today (a version of Marcus Samuelson’s BEP) https://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/black-eyed-peas-coconut-milk-and-ethiopian-spices) I will use all my senses. Maybe that’s why I love cooking.

I hope that in 2021 I can cook for friends as well as family. I hope that in 2021 some of my meals will be inside restaurants, carefully prepared and served by other people.

I hope that in 2021 some of my days will begin with a different view, maybe not a view of far away places – I love being at home – but as grateful as I am to be sheltering in place, I miss other places.

This year has gone on for a LONG time. I’ve been undeservedly lucky and I am grateful. Always.

breaking the rules

One of the things I miss is traveling, and tonight I’m thinking about New Orleans – one of my favorite cities. Somehow reality seems different there, and right now it’s nice to daydream about a different reality, different rules.

New Orleans was almost an annual trip for us. For a while I liked to begin and end every visit to NOLA on Tchoupitoulas at Cochon with an oyster and bacon sandwich, something I would be very unlikely to eat anywhere else on earth.

I generally am not a fan of cathedrals or of cops, but in the French Quarter in 2017 it just seemed right:

And listening to music is one of my favorite things to do there. Music is everywhere, and somehow it is always special. Even on Bourbon Street, which otherwise I’d prefer to avoid.

Fritzel’s European Jazz Club on Bourbon Street

We heard Irvin Mayfield several times at the Irvin Jazz Playhouse in the Royal Sonesta on Bourbon and once, memorably, at St. Louis Cathedral, where the holiday season always featured fabulous free concerts.

I am sad that this week Mayfield pleaded guilty to fraud. I get it that he “diverted” a lot of money, not just to his non-profit projects but to indulgences including a gold-plated trumpet. But I want to forgive him, because somehow his love for music and for New Orleans should make it all okay. If there is any place where the rules should be different, it’s New Orleans.

In this time of COVID, I’m going to keep following the rules. But there is no rule against dreaming.

Struggling

There is nothing more I can do today that will change the election results. I’ve voted, I’ve texted, I’ve sent letters, and I’ve written checks. I’m prepared to send more checks if, as expected, there is an extended legal battle. So now I’m going to turn my attention in another direction, while feeling somehow guilty that I can’t do more.

One of the things getting us through this pandemic is our new happy-hour-at home-tradition. We’ve focused happily on three-ingredient cocktails mostly featuring gin and bourbon, but now I want to learn more about traditional low ABV apertifs, including sherry. I have added Tio Pepe Palomino Fino to our pre-dinner menu.

Another life-saver has been the garden and the many sunny days we’ve enjoyed this fall. After a summer during which it was devastated by wall repair, I’ve re-planted my front garden and am hopeful that it will again be beautiful in the spring, especially the thymes and lavenders I’ve added.

Uncertainty and powerlessness. Not a good combination.

Admiring the mints

As the end of summer approaches, I’m spending as much time in the garden as I can. Tonight I’m admiring the mints. For obvious reasons I keep most of them in pots, although often they escape:

I like mints because they are easy to grow, beautiful and useful. I put a very high priority on useful. Feeling less than useful is, for me, one of the toughest things about this pandemic time.

“It is the destiny of mint to be crushed.” ~ Waverley Root

This year I used mint to underplant my fig trees. I have high hopes of a (small) fig harvest, but I am confident that we’ll have all the mint we can use for quite a while.

Aloisa loves the mints because she knows she can safely pick and eat the leaves. John likes to grab a handful to add to tea. I like mint in salads, where they remind me of the wonderful herb-filled salads I loved in Lebanon. It’s comforting to think that even now, despite how much is going badly, my friends in Lebanon have mint.

“The yard was full of tomato plants about to ripen, and mint, mint, everything smelling of mint, and one fine old tree that I loved to sit under on those cool perfect starry California October nights unmatched anywhere in the world.” ~ Jack Kerouac

If you need some mint, let me know; I am happy to share.

“The was full of tomato plants about to ripen, and mint, mint, everything smelling of mint, and one fine old tree that I loved to sit under on those cool perfect starry California October nights unmatched anywhere in the world.” ~ Jack Kerou”The yard was full of tomato plants about to ripen, and mint, mint, everything smelling of mint, and one fine old tree that I loved to sit under on those cool perfect starry California October nights unmatched anywhere in the world.” ~ Jack Kero

goodbye, louis

Learning, this morning, that Louis Escobar has died, brought back so many memories! When I first met Louis he was an impossibly-handsome activist young doing outreach for the Aids Task Force, of which John was a member. His job was providing education (and condoms) in bars. It seems so long ago! (It WAS so long ago!)

Years later I was executive director of the Lucas County Democratic Party when Louis came to us asking for endorsement as a candidate for city council. I was sceptical. Could a gay Hispanic ex-priest really get elected? I remember Sue Wuest’s answer: she did not want to live in a city where Louis Escobar couldn’t get elected. She was right. With the party’s endorsement and with the help of Sue and countless others, he pulled it off. And now they are both gone.

For quite a while I knew Louis mainly as an elected official who was hardworking but sometimes difficult. Always a friend, usually an ally, and often a pain in the neck, but in a good way.

When my daughter got married, Louis was the officiant. His advice and affection meant a lot. After my granddaughter was born, Louis was a frequent guest at her birthday parties. He and Kelly loved to give her the most beautiful outfits!

When I became chair of the Pathway board, I asked Louis to join me there. As always, he was ready to help and eager to make sure that community, especially the Hispanic community, was included.

In the last few years, I saw Louis at the occasional party or when we crossed paths at a restaurant.

He was a good man, and I will miss him.

one reason to get up in the morning

A few days ago I found myself talking about pockets. Johanna had discovered that her swimsuit had a pocket, a rare occurrence. Aloisa immediately objected, why did only grownups have pockets in their swimsuits? So I pointed out that I, too, lacked a pocket in my swimsuit, as did Olivia. John had a pocket in his swimsuit. Jeff had a pocket in his swimsuit. So it did not seem that grownups had the advantage here.

Johanna suggested that in our neighbors’ families, again, the pattern persisted: she named the boys and the dads, saying that they had pockets while the girls and the moms did not. Loi saw the scheme: BOYS had pockets, but GIRLS did not. So we asked her why that might be.

Loi suggested that “in the olden days” SOME people thought that girls were not as good as boys. I couldn’t resist muttering “Yeah, like yesterday,” and I said to Loi, “Some people still think that.” Because she is five, my granddaughter said “I KNOW, Grandma.” (Some days, she knows everything.)

Loi has grown up with loving parents, adoring grandparents, an uncle whose visits are a treat and an aunt who stands in as fairy godmother. But somehow even she knows the truth: sometimes, some people think she is not as good as a boy.

I still have a reason to get up in the morning.

My irrational garden

Gardening is not a rational act.
Margaret Atwood

Even in these unprecedented times, some things stay the same. For me, one of those things is the joy I find in my garden. When I was a child, I watched my father spend hours almost every summer day in his largely weed-free vegetable garden. He grew a few flowers too, mainly annuals in straight rows. He worked hard in the garden and when he let me help I considered it an honor. He was proud of the cucumbers, radishes, and maybe most of all the tomatoes that he brought into our kitchen just in time for salads and mayonnaise-heavy sandwiches on soft white bread.

Over the years, my garden has evolved, adapting to sun when our former neighbor removed a big tree and now shade again as the replacements he planted have matured. Years ago we invested in good bones for the garden: bricks to enclose the slightly-raised beds, gravel to separate them, and a stone path to lead into and through it. Within that structure, I impose few rules, and they are ever-changing.

This year, quarantine kept me from my usual springtime greenhouse tour, so I’ve relied largely on plants that self-seeded from last year , were moved from other areas, or miraculously re-appeared after long absences.

More and more, the garden is for the birds, the butterflies, and the bees. Here are my favorites from early July:

self-seeded dill in front of re-located true geranium

A few years ago I planted cleome, and this year it’s back!

I bought butterfly milkweed for the monarchs, but I would keep it just because it’s pretty.

monarchs have begun to visit the swamp milkweed

Gardening is a humbling experience.
Martha Stewart

Summer escapes

I’ve spent a lot of time with Vera Stanhope over the last few weeks. I’ve admired her brilliance, been frustrated by her scruffiness, and worried about her existential wellbeing. In real life, I don’t think I would enjoy Vera, but in quarantine she’s been a very welcome distraction. Vera will certainly be added to the list of fictional detectives who have compelled me into and through a lifelong series of escapist adventures, and heaven knows escapism has been even more important lately. Fiction has always been my best escape.

“I will go to my grave in a state of abject endless fascination that we all have the capacity to become emotionally involved with a personality that doesn’t exist.”
― Berkeley Breathed

It’s been a gorgeous June, and I’ve also indulged in some garden escapes, both at home, where our pond with its new liner has attracted toad song which has resulted in copious toad spawn and will soon produce hordes of toad tadpoles :

and nearby at TBG, where I can admire the gardens (roses, the last of the peonies, the first of the lilies) without further destroying my knees.

“If you get far enough away you’ll be on your way back home. ” Tom Waits

Really, why go anywhere? I’m in my own home with people I love and, basically, everything I could want. Unless I want to get out, visit other places, see other people, and eat a good meal that someone else prepares and serves. I want all that. So far I don’t want it enough to risk getting sick.

Someday I hope to look back on this summer from a distance, and I hope it feels as unreal then as it does now.

“There are people who think that things that happen in fiction do not really happen. These people are wrong.”
― Neil Gaiman